Wednesday, November 26, 2014

"Another
beautiful fall day here in southeast Florida," said MJ Austin, my friend
and full-time employee. She poured herself a fresh cup of coffee, the fragrances
of vanilla and cinnamon mingled in the air. When I gestured with my empty cup, she
poured me a warm-up.

While
she had the pot in her hand, MJ cocked her head at Skye's cup. "Want
some?"

"No,
thanks. I'm drinking Yerba Mate," Skye said.

"Sorry
I asked," said MJ. "That stuff is just plain nasty."

They
are such a study in contrasts. While Skye's curls tumble down around her
shoulders, MJ wears her hair pulled off of her face. They are both gorgeous
women, both blonde, and very different from each other. I've been blessed to
welcome them into my life. Doubly-blessed that they're my co-workers at the
store.

"Granted,
Yerba Mate isn't as tasty as coffee, but I like it," said Skye. "It gives
me extra energy. I need it when I'm working an extra shift over at
Pumpernickel's Deli."

"I
hope you aren't racing over to the deli right away," I said. "We need
to discuss the upcoming holiday. Specifically, how we can leverage Thanksgiving
as a way to boost our sales."

The
Treasure Chest is a décor and more shop, specializing in upcycled, recycled,
and repurposed items. Most of our items have a sort of beach vibe to them.

There
are two stumbling blocks on the road to our success.

One,
we need to keep finding ways to turn trash into treasure. I don't have a lot of
money to spend with vendors. I also don't have the time to wait for them to
check my credit and process my order. That means we have to be come up with our
own merchandise—and that takes a lot of creativity.

Two,
we need to get people through the door. Once they see what we're offering,
they're sure to make a purchase. That purchase will become one of many, if we
do our job right.

"My
shift doesn't start for another half an hour, so we're cool."

"I'm
all ears," said MJ.

"Good.
I made up an agenda." From the pocket of my Lilly Pulitzer skirt, I pulled
out a list I'd printed neatly on a sheet from a legal pad of paper. "Item
#1, thank you for coming."

That
set my pals to snickering. We were sitting in the back room of my little store,
The Treasure Chest, around a table that had become our natural gathering spot.
Even though I'd officially called a meeting, the chances had been high Skye and
MJ would have shown up anyway. Skye lives upstairs, on the second floor, in the
apartment right next to mine. Effortlessly, our schedules have become
synchronized. Most morning, we bump into each other on our way down the stairs.

MJ
has a bungalow on the other side of town. I haven't seen it, but my fingers are
crossed that one day she'll issue an invitation. She seems to have a sixth
sense about when to show up at the store. Even on the days that she isn't
scheduled, she often manages to pop in and see what's up.

"Please
note that our response to Item #1 was we're happy to attend your meeting. We
want this place to succeed almost as much as you do," said MJ.

"I
couldn't have said it better." Skye gave MJ a high five.

"Then,
let's move right along to Item #2. How are we going to keep this ship afloat
over the holidays? Specifically, how are we going to fill our shelves—and what
can we offer that's unique for Thanksgiving?"

Chapter 2

The expectant faces now turned
solemn.

"Unique
for Thanksgiving?" Skye parroted my question. "You mean what can we
offer that's just for the holiday? A one-time product?"

"Not
exactly. I'm thinking we need merchandise that we can point to as being the
perfect gift for a Thanksgiving hostess. Or something unique to put on the
Thanksgiving table. Otherwise, we don't have anything new to promote. Seems to
me that we have to keep changing up what we offer so we keep capturing the
buying public's attention. We need to give them a reason to walk through our
front door."

Right
then, my rescue pup Jack started whining. I opened his crate and cuddled him
under one arm. Jack and I met as a man threw the Chihuahua out of a moving
truck. The dog has come a long way since then, growing in confidence even as
his broken leg healed up. But once in a while, when he hears stress in my
voice, he whimpers. I can't blame him.

"You're
right," said MJ. "Back when XXX owned The Treasure Chest, she'd put a
new display in the window and surround it with pumpkins and Indian corn. It
wasn't much, but it always brought more foot traffic. The idea is to lure the
customers in. They change the menu over at the deli, don't they?"

Everyone
was stumped. MJ played with one of her fake diamond earrings, twirling it
around and around in her ear. Skye stared off into space while she rubbed the
fabric of her black pants between her thumb and forefinger.

"Don't everyone chime in at
once," I said.

They didn't.

The silence went longer than I
expected.

"Anyone?
Anyone?" I tried channeling Ben Stein as the teacher in Ferris Buehler's
Day Off, but I didn't get a response.

"Give
us a day to think about it," said MJ. "Rome wasn't built in a day.
You're springing this on us, and I need time to process."

She
sounded a bit testy, but I knew why. MJ is supposed to be my retail guru,
because she's worked in retail her whole life. But this slipped past her. Her
lack of diligence disappointed me, and she knew it. In addition to twirling her
earrings, she began tapping her toe on the floor impatiently. Like a fox that
gets startled by an approaching dog, she wanted to run and hide in her burrow.

"Right,"
I said, as I folded the paper and put it back into my pocket. "That makes
sense. Is twenty-four hours long enough?"

"Sure,"
said Skye.

"I
guess," said MJ.

Chapter 3

I needed to change the mood. No way
did I want my friends going out and greeting the public with frowns on their
faces. "Tell me everybody, what are you doing for Thanksgiving? Any
special plans?"

My voice sounded light and cheery
because I felt happy about the upcoming holiday. My son Tommy is down the
highway, attending University of Miami. He'd promised to come to Stuart for the
weekend break.

"I like it here, but it's not
home," he'd complained. "I miss St. Louis. The leaves, Mom! Remember how
cool they were? All the colors?"

When my friends didn't volunteer
their plans, I told them about Tommy's upcoming visit and then I added what
he'd said about the leaves.

"The drive to Kansas City had
this dip, and you could see colors like a painter had mixed on his palette.
Bittersweet, orange, fiery red, maroon, brown, gold. Tommy and I would make the
drive just to get to that spot. It made our hearts sing. The maple in our front
yard started turning first. He and I would rake up leaves and jump in them.
When we were tired, we'd go inside and drink apple cider." I brushed a
tear from my face. The memories cheered me and saddened me. That was my old
life. Things had changed. Was it wrong of me to miss the sweet parts even as I
enjoyed my new home?

"We do have trees that change
here," said Skye. "Sugar maples, sweet gum, and live oak, to name a
few, but most of those are north of here."

"But nothing changes here! You
can't tell one season from another!" I said.

"That's not true, Cara."
Skye's voice was gentle but firm. "There are a lot of seasonal changes.
You just don't know what to look for. Not yet at least."

"What
would you do back home?" asked MJ. "What would make your son feel
less homesick for St. Louis?"

"I
always decorated our front yard for the holidays. I'd buy a bale of hay and
spread it around in the front yard. I'd add cornstalks. Maybe even a scarecrow.
Tommy used to make fun of me for doing it, but maybe it mattered more than I
realized."

"What
did you do for Thanksgiving day proper?" asked Skye. "I know you had
a restaurant. Did you have to work all day?"

"Not
always. We had a lottery system. Employees and staff would toss their names in
a hat. Dad would draw the slips of paper out in front of everyone so it was
totally above board. A couple of holidays, we were able to eat together as a
family."

MJ
stared at me. Her emotions were unreadable. She's like that. I've never met a
woman who can project so much sensuality and then turn so cold and inscrutable.
"How did you celebrate when you were all together?"

"Well,"
I thought back, "our last Thanksgiving, I made dinner for my family. Turkey,
stuffing, and all the trimmings. We kept the same menu every year. I've got it
in my cell phone. We decided that if everyone couldn't come, we'd have the same
meal the next day and pretend it was Thanksgiving as if it didn't happen the
day before. Kind of silly, but we loved it."

"The
same food every year," repeated Skye.

"Absolutely.
The menu never changed. A couple of years, Poppy flew up to join us. He looked
at the spread on the table and said how happy he was that we kept with
tradition. So I couldn't change the menu, even if I wanted to. See, Dad was in
charge of the menu at the restaurant, but at home, Mom used to—" My voice
cracked. I choked back tears. I'd been so busy at the store that I'd forgotten
that this would be my first Thanksgiving without my parents.

My
eyes filled with tears, but through the blurry lens I could see MJ and Skye
exchange glances. Skye hopped up from her chair and poured a glass of water.
She slid it in front of me with the practiced movement of a woman who'd been
waiting tables for years.

Skye's
voice sparkled with delight as she said, "That will be so nice. I know
you've missed him. He'll have tons to tell you about his roommate, his classes,
and—"

"His
love life," said MJ.

I
frowned at her. "My son just turned eighteen. I'm hoping he hasn't had
much experience in the love life department."

"And
at eighteen, you were…?" MJ's eyes pinned me down.

"Pregnant
with him. That's exactly why I hope he's being smarter than I was. Don't get me
wrong. I love my kid to pieces, and I'm glad I had him, but eighteen is awfully
young to be a parent." I wanted to change the subject, so I asked, "What
are you doing for Thanksgiving, MJ?"

"Opening
cans of turkey Fancy Feast for all my cats." Her expression was
unreadable.

"You
can't do that. Come eat with us. Tommy and Poppy and I would love to have you.
You can't eat alone at Thanksgiving!"

Some
days I worried about MJ. She'd come from a family that didn't believe in
celebrating holidays. While she was honest, loyal, and in possession of a kind
heart, she could be a bit prickly now and again. I attributed that to her being
lonely. The very idea of her being all alone on Thanksgiving—except for the fur
babies—made me sick.

"Kidding,"
she said, almost too quickly. "Just joking around with you, Cara. Actually
an old boyfriend invited me to join him at the Biltmore in Coral Gables for
their Thanksgiving buffet. It's to die for. Elegant tables with white damask
clothes, silver serving dishes, a carving station, Champagne, and music, in a
room with dark wood paneling, tropical palms, and Spanish mosaics. I can hardly
wait."

Now
that sounded more like it. I turned
my attention to Skye. "What are your plans?"

Her
smile flickered like a bad florescent bulb. On, off, on, off, and on. "I
always work Thanksgiving Day at Pumpernickels. The tips are fantastic."

"But
when do you eat your Thanksgiving
meal? Surely they schedule servers in shifts," I said.

She
hesitated. "I usually work a double. But don't worry. The boss sets out
turkey and trimmings for the servers. Okay, one year I didn't get any because
we were so busy, but usually I load up a plate. I've even been known to take
home leftovers."

She
rubbed her tummy appreciatively.

"What
time do you get off?" I asked. "We can adjust the time of our meal so
you can join us."

"That's
very kind of you, but no, please don't," she said, shaking her head.
"I actually prefer eating with the other servers. It's a sort of bonding
experience. I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Right.
My gut told me that both my friends were lying.

< > < > < >

Are Cara Mia's friends telling the truth about how they'll spend Thanksgiving? Will the holidays of Cara's remembrance over-shadow the present day? Or will Cara adjust to her new home and make this Thanksgiving a day of thanks?

Monday, November 10, 2014

People think that being pregnant is
all about your growing belly, but the truth is, it also messes with your head.
It's like for every inch my waistband expands, I lose ten points of my IQ.
Maybe it's because I don't get much sleep anymore. My skin itches, the baby
pokes me with his feet, and the indigestion causes a burning in my throat.
Don't even get me started on the hormones. Whatever the scientific reason for
my brain fog, I'm just not as sharp as usual.

My fiancé Detective Chad Detweiler
and I were lying in bed talking one night a couple of weeks before Christmas,
when he said, "I've been thinking about baby names."

"Oh, you have?"

"Yes, in fact, I've been giving
it a lot of thought. I think we ought to name our son Helmut Detweiler."

Thank goodness it was dark. I could
feel my mouth flop open. I couldn't believe what he was saying. "Name our
son what?"

"Helmut Englebert Detweiler.
That's a good, strong German name."

I couldn't even respond; I was that
stunned.

Detweiler continued, "We could
call him Mutt for short."

I gasped.

"Mutt Detweiler. It has a
certain ring to it," he said.

The bed started shaking.

Detweiler was laughing.

"You!" I pummeled him with
my fists. "You had me going."

"Yeah," he said,
chuckling. "You believed me!"

I sighed. "Wow. For a minute
there, I was really worried."

Detweiler rolled over and raised
himself on his elbows so he could stare down at me. "You shouldn't have
been. You know I can't name our kid without your approval."

"And you guessed I wouldn't be
in favor of Mutt."

"Yeah, I guessed."

I raised my head to meet his lips
and kissed him. "Well, you guessed right."

Chapter 2

Wednesday, December 1

"My fingers are crossed,"
I whispered, holding up my right hand, while Ester grabbed my left. I leaned
over my friend to tell her granddaughter, "Good luck, Caitlyn!"

All eyes watched the front of the
room, as the representative from the St. Louis Art Museum stepped to the
podium.

"Now the moment we've all been
waiting for. I'm pleased to announce the winner of this year's Demski Award,
including a four-year scholarship to Indiana University in Bloomington,
Indiana," he said, smoothing his red and navy silk tie nervously. A
volunteer handed him an envelope, and I sneaked another peek at Caitlyn. Like
her grandmother, Ester Field, she has a round face and vivid blue eyes. Caitlyn
was biting her lower lip in anticipation, and I couldn't blame her. This
scholarship meant the world to her. It also meant a pile of money, as it would
trade the winner's piece of art for a four year, all expenses paid scholarship.

Caitlyn had inherited her
grandmother's love of crafting. In fact, it was Ester who started the Crafting
Cuties twenty years ago, two years before Caitlyn was born. Since then the
number of members had dwindled to four regulars, but even so, the CC enjoyed
themselves. They got together once a month to work on projects and to share
craft ideas. Okay, some of their end products were corny, but many were very
nice. The women offered each other a great support network. Caitlyn had grown
up at her grandmother's knee, trying her hand at all sorts of crafts.

Eventually, she'd settled on
sculpting.

To the left of us was Caitlyn's
entry for the Demski Award, the highest honor you could achieve as an art
student in the metro-St. Louis area. On a three-foot high plinth sat the
sculpture of a girl walking beside a lion as her one hand rested on its mane.
How Caitlyn had pulled off such a remarkable piece was beyond all my
imaginings. Ester told me that her granddaughter had spent day after day at the
St. Louis Zoo watching the lions, studying them, and sketching them as they
moved around their enclosure. I wouldn't doubt it. A lot of student work is
derivative, and frankly, it looks second generation, but Caitlyn's "Girl
with a Lion" fairly vibrated with life. She had managed to capture both
the majesty of the king of beasts, and the innocence of the young woman.

Rising above us on its column, the
statue was truly breath-taking.Since
I'm short, I found myself staring up into the jaws of the lion, admiring the
sharp teeth and the curl of his tongue. The details impressed me, from the
furled edges of his lips as they bordered his mouth to the way his heels
hovered over the platform. Lions are digitigrades or toewalkers, so the backs
of their feet never touch the ground. Caitlyn had taken such care with his mane
and the tuft of his tail that you could make out the individual strands of
hair. Unthinkingly, I leaned in, trying to see her work more closely.

"Please stand back,
ma'am," said a guard wearing a navy blue uniform.

"Sorry." I stepped away
from the artwork and turned my full attention to the presentation. The small
meeting room was packed with people, all waiting to hear who had won the
scholarship. The work of six students was represented, but Caitlyn's was the
only three-dimensional piece of art. That alone made it a winner in my book,
but honestly, I couldn't imagine that the judges weren't impressed by her
effort.

The presenter jammed his finger under the flap
of the envelope. No one made a sound. Even Eudora, Ester's sister, was quiet
for once. That's really saying something, because Eudora needs to be the center
of attention. When I tried to teach the Crafting Cuties about Zentangle, Eudora
had refused to shut up. I had to talk over her to give my instructions.

But that had been the least of the
problems that Eudora had caused. When I asked her to be careful and move away
from the display table, Eudora laughed. Two seconds later, she dumped a large
plastic cup of cola all over my work, carelessly pouring her favorite beverage
over my pen and ink drawings.

I glanced over to see what Eudora
was up to. She sat perfectly still in her motorized scooter on the outskirts of
the crowd. When the gentleman stepped to the podium, the group had taken two
steps forward, closer to the front of the room. Everyone wanted to hear what he
had to say, and even with a microphone in front of them, sometimes people
forget to talk into it.

I studied Eudora for a minute and
noted the surly tilt of her chin. Given how nasty she was, it was hard to
believe that Ester and Caitlyn were part of the same family. Like her sister
and her grand-niece, Eudora had a round face, but her eyes were a cross between
green and blue. But none of Eudora's features could be thought of as kind,
because as far as I could tell, she didn't have a kind bone in her body.
Thinking back, I couldn't remember hearing her say one kind word to anybody.

Fortunately, Eudora seemed to have
realized this was Caitlyn's time to shine, because for once, her lips were
sealed. She sat there pouting on the padded seat of her motorized scooter and
stared straight ahead.

The ripping of paper took my
attention back to the man on the podium. He'd jammed his finger under the flap
of the envelope. Now he extracted a notecard and scanned the message. Clearing
his throat, the presenter said, "I'm pleased to announce that this year's
Demski Art Scholarship goes to—"

I squeezed Ester's hand.

"Caitlyn Robinson!"

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" Caitlyn
threw her hand over her mouth. Tears sprang from her eyes as she turned to
Ester. "Bubbie, can you believe it? Thank you, thank you for encouraging
me. I would have never tried for this without you!"

The two women, old and young,
grabbed each other in a happy embrace.

Over the hubbub of the crowd, I
heard a motor rev.

What
idiot chose to vacuum the carpet? I wondered.

"Congratulations,
Caitlyn," said another young artist, a young woman coming up from behind
to give Caitlyn a hug.

The motor revved again. This time louder.

"Way to go, Caitlyn!" said
a spotty-faced boy as he clapped the winner on the back.

Caitlyn blushed a deep crimson.
"Thanks, Eitan."

"Stop it, ma'am," said a
deep voice behind us.

I didn't care to turn around and
look at the mischief maker. Instead, all my energy was focused on Caitlyn as
she graciously accepted one congratulations after another. To my joy, the
losers all seemed happy for the girl. Most of them even admitted that she was
by far the most worthy candidate for the Demski.

"Can you believe it?"
Ester wiped her eyes with a shaking hand. "My grandbaby's work will be
here in the art museum for everyone to see and enjoy. Best of all, she'll be
able to go away to college. She's been wanting to go to U of I ever since I
took her down to Brown County to see all the artists. I hate to have her so far
away, but she'll get a good education there. Maybe even be able to make a
living doing what she loves."

"It's unbelievable," I
agreed, thinking back and remembering the beautiful album Ester had made of the
trip she and her granddaughter had taken together. "That statue is
fantastic. I took a few good photos of it. I can't wait to show my fri—"

But my sentence was interrupted by a
loud crash.

All of us turned toward the noise.

"Ahh!" screamed a woman.

The crowd parted.

On the floor, in a million pieces,
was Caitlyn's statue.

Right beside the mess sat Eudora Field.
She had both hands on the steering wheel of her scooter, and she wore a great
big grin on her face.